Red Night
by Enelya
Summary: If I may be insubordinate, you are not needed here. Your wife needs you. Your children need you.' The man was Bëorian, his grey eyes that locked with Húrin’s hard and compelling. 'Go, my lord.' [Follows 'Vigil'.]


**Title:** Red Night

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**Prompt:** 007. _like violence you have me, forever, and after; like violence, you kill me, forever, and after_**  
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**Author's Notes:** Tolkien owns everything. The angst-fest continues. This follows 'Vigil'.

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He should have understood long before the words tumbled from the messenger's chapped and thirsty lips. They had arrived in the late afternoon, a horse and rider who were both sweating, dusty, and looking close to exhaustion. The rider he vaguely recognised, a boy of thirteen years or so, and the horse, although not a destrier or a palfrey, was fine enough to come from his own stables. That should have been his first warning. His wife never sent trivial news: even in person, Morwen spoke as though each word was a treasure with which she parted grudgingly. That she had sent one of their own household on one of their own horses should have spoken volumes to him, had he looked at it closer.

He did not understand until the young courier began to report. 'I bring a message from the Lady of Dor-lómin,' he paused for a moment, then continued at Húrin's nod. 'She bid me tell you this: your son has taken ill, and your daughter…' _is dying_, Húrin realised dully, as the boy continued falteringly, 'your daughter grows worse.'

Sound faded: he could faintly hear the messenger and his horse being led away, and outside, his soldiers continued to talk, laugh and argue as though the sun had not stopped shining. He sat in his silent tent, eyes tracing the lines of the maps over and over again, and he gratefully stopped thinking for some time.

He realised it was evening when his steward came through the gloom of the tent to light candles. 'We gave the lad some food and a fresh horse, and he's ready to leave. Will there be a reply?'

'Not tonight.' Húrin winced at the brightness. The candles made the tent as light as when the message had come, and he did not want to think about the news. 'What could I say?'

'A wiser man might ask what he could do.'

Húrin's anger flared at that, although he was not certain why. 'We are at war. I have a duty.' He could do his duty for his men, at least.

'The enemy is quiescent. Our scouts report no new movements, and they have not tried any serious attacks in weeks. If I may be insubordinate, you are not needed here. Your wife needs you. Your children need you.' The man was Bëorian, his grey eyes that locked with Húrin's hard and compelling. 'Go, my lord.'

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They rode that night beneath the cold stars and a pale sickle moon, the silence interrupted at times by the creak of a saddle, water rushing when they forded a stream, or the call of a bird in the woods. He lost count of the hours, his mind caught up in thoughts. Some cold part of him whispered that he should be more concerned for his son's health than his daughter's, and he cursed himself for it. Túrin, for all he was his son and heir, was Morwen's son: proud, dark, and silent. Lalaith was the child of his heart. She had seemed well when last he departed. How could she be fighting for life, even as he raced home?

_She is the laughter and the life of our family, _he thought,_ and it will go ill with us should we lose her._

They stopped to rest the horses, and he wondered where he had gone wrong. He had told Morwen to be brave in the face of the Evil Breath, but she was strong already, and courage alone could not keep the sickness at bay. He should have sent them away as soon as they heard the illness was moving southwards. They would have been safe with his mother's kin in Brethil, or with the Elves to the west.

Why had he hesitated? He did not believe in running away, even as a tactical retreat. To do so would have made his people doubtful and afraid, and would have left Dor-lómin without a ruler in his absence. These were not reasons, merely excuses, and they had no strength against his fear.

When they set off again before dawn, he raised his eyes to the sky and silently beseeched Estë and Elbereth to watch over his family. Even with fresh horses, they would not reach his house for at least another night, and he was afraid of what he would find there. He spurred his horse onwards, afraid to arrive late and afraid to arrive at all.

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They arrived at sunset the next day.

The town was subdued and the streets mostly empty, although many watched from doorways and windows as they rode past. In his house it was worse. His folk did not look surprised to see him, and ushered the other men and horses away without a word. They watched him silently as he made his way towards the nursery, pausing at the door to brace himself for whatever he might find inside.

Morwen stood guard over her daughter's crib. She was thinner than he remembered, and the one candle in the room served only to highlight the darkness and carve deep shadows in her face. Her eyes were dry when he approached, but she stood very, very still, as though any movement at all would make her shatter. He put his arm gently around her, and she moved her head to rest on his shoulder. Her eyes clenched tightly shut, then opened again. Silence hung in the air between them.

Lalaith slept fitfully, her limbs twitching. Like her mother, she looked thin and tired. He reached over and stroked her hair gently, trying to quieten her, and his breath caught when she coughed and whimpered. Deep inside he was raging at the Enemy, at the Valar, at fate and chance for taking both his children, but outside he felt frozen. He could do nothing but watch his daughter sleep, holding his breath every time her chest fell, and releasing it as she inhaled again.

It was not fair. None of it was fair, but least of all that his little child was dying without knowing that she was warm and safe and loved. Morwen barely made a sound as he released her and picked up Lalaith, moving to the window seat. 'This should not be happening,' he said quietly.

She did not answer for a moment, but her breath escaped in a long, shaky sigh. 'All men must die.'

'Not so young. Not alone. Not like this.' He beckoned her over. She sat down beside him, and her head rested on his shoulder again. His arms curled protectively around his wife and daughter, and he almost smiled to see Lalaith sleep peacefully. He felt Morwen's arms move to encircle Lalaith and himself, a ring of love and warmth against the darkness outside. They stayed like that as the hours moved on, watching as her breathing slowed… and… _stopped…_

Then everything was still, and he could only hear his own ragged breath.


End file.
